


Call from home

by breathingsentences



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Nightwing - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Batfamily Feels, Blackgate Penitentiary, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Canon Divergent, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Manipulation, Extraterrestrial Contact, Haly's Circus, Mystery, Personal Attacks, Religious Cult, Rumored child neglect, Social Services, TW: Suicide, The Flying Graysons, What's reivision?, batfam, disfunctional family, mentions of character's death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-10-29 17:14:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17812109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathingsentences/pseuds/breathingsentences
Summary: "They're coming after my children, Alfred. Individually. And I don't know who they are or how to stop them.""At least the intention seems clear, sir. The aim is to set this family apart."Or the one the batboys receive very personal and possibly deadly messages.





	1. Damian and Dick

It was a drizzling, Titus' favorite kind of weather, Damian suspected.

He watched, standing in the wet grass, rain jacket and boots on, as the dog ran around the backyard, just a few feet past Alfred's herbs garden, and excitedly jump on puddles, his tail wiggling high and long tongue catching the rain drops. 

From his part, Damian disliked the wet weather. It made his skin feel humid even inside, it made the sky seem lower, the clouds erased the stars and usually made Batman grumpier and Bruce Wayne wear his knee brace under Italian suits.

It had been a tiring week filled with tests at school, bone chilling rain dripping under his Robin uniform, and sudden night storms keeping him awake consoling his trembling pets. 

And the message received from Mother was just the cherry on top. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw it, the firm and precise strikes of black nankim against handmade ahar paper declaring they would see each other again, sooner than he expected.

The simple thought made Damian’s stomach turn. What did she mean? Was the League planning something? Was she taking him away from Father? They had been keeping an eye out on Ra’s movements and nothing had stood out in months. 

No, it was something personal, a meeting between mother and son. Damian knew the time would come for him to tell her how much his mind and behaviour had changed since she left him on the cares of Father, still he was not ready to face the task. There was no way she would be pleased with him. 

Maybe Grandfather had ordered her to come collect him, set him back in the ways of the al Ghul, finish their project of turning him the rightful successor of the League of Assassins.

But could he ever go back? Could he unremorsefully kill again? Would he be able to leave Gotham? Would he forget about the manor and Alfred, see the disappointment in Grayson’s eyes every time he looked at him? There was not a chance he would give Robin back to Drake, absolutely not. 

Sending a message and not coming directly and unexpectedly, like she often did, was hardly the way Talia operated. There was something else to it, he was sure. 

He would figure out what it was, hopefully before Father returned to Eath on his Justice League mission. He was Robin, the greatest detective in the world after Batman himself. He would realize what it was once he finally managed a good night’s sleep.

For now, all he could do was keep an eye on Titus, let him get muddy and stinky before a nice and warm bath.

_______________________

Detective Grayson stood under the pouring rain hunched inside his Bludhaven Police Department uniform jacket. At his feet, the water mixed with the blood that had left the woman’s broken body.

He looks up towards the heavy sky, eyes squinting against the drops, and focuses on the roof of the condemned building. Witnesses reports say she jumped. No one was seen at that rooftop or leaving the seven floored complex since she hit the pavement. They’d get a warrant for any security cameras around just to be sure.

“I’m going up,” He says to the equally soaked officer guarding the body. “No need for backup. Building is empty.” 

If someone had thrown her, they’d be far away by now anyway. Still he had to check the crime scene. He enters what must be the grungiest building at city’s East Side, turns on his flashlight and climbs the stairs up to the seventh floor.

The hallway is dark, the walls filled with graffiti. He walks past one, then two, and three doorframes reinforced shut before stopping dead on his tracks at the forth one, his light catching the glimpse of something.

He aims it to the door, and in an involuntary reflex he steps forward heart racing in his chest, his mouth suddenly dry.

There’s a poster fixed there, by far the newest and cleanest thing in the entire building. Its colors shine bright yellows and blues and purple, on the top the white cursive letters he could identify from a mile away. The Haly’s Circus very own Flying Graysons. 

He shone his light up and down the hall, no signs of movement, nothing else caling his attention. He swallowed dry and pulled his gun out his holster.

"BPD, open up!" His voice bounces on the walls and he hears his last syllable on and on. When the echo fades, he quicks the door open.

The lock gives away easily under the impact and slams on against its hinges revealing the inside. Dick's eyes widen and he let his arms fall at his sides. His radio buzzes on his waist.

"Grayson? What the hell was that?" Rohrbach barks, worry masked under irritation. He hears hurriedly footsteps climbing the stairs floors below him. Familiar heavy booted ones. _Colleagues_ , his brain supplies him.

He steps inside oddly unafraid of what is inside. Irresponsible, Batman would have said, but what is in front of him inspires no fear, though makes his chest ache.

The small apartment is lit by the dim light of the morning rainy sky, but it is enough to reveal its content. There is no furniture in the open plan living room and kitchen, but the walls are covered in colorful posters exhibiting the many attractions of the Haly's circus.

The Magic Thruman and his top hat and beautiful assistant, the Nim Yen sisters and their contorted positions atop each other, the clowns, and the equilibrists, the strong man and the singers, faces Dick once knew so well, staring back at him.

"Grayson!" Rohrbach stood at the door, a group of man walking past her and into the apartment, guns searching for any sign of danger. "Are you out your fucking...?"

She stops by his side taking in the vibrant pictures for a second before tugging forcefully at his arm. "Out. Get out. Now."

But Dick is still lost, staring at the posters, savoring memories buried deep of smiling faces and stories told around the fire and the smells of popcorn, cheap makeup and sweaty costumes.

Two hands grab the sides of his face and Rohrbach eyes are on his. "Grayson! Leave. That's an order."

And it's like a sparkle of an engine and the sluggishness of his brain faded. A trap. A crime scene laid out straight to him. But for what? By whom? Did they know? Was it coincidence? No. A death on his territory, on his duty day, it was on purpose. He was the target.

"I still have to..."

"You have to go. Wait downstairs until..."

"It's all clear! And boss, you'll wanna see it."

Together, they follow the guard out the window and up the fire scape stairs. On the roof, an old and fallen outdoor is laid on the ground. In white paint, startlingly bright against the faded and dirty add, the lines of a circus trapeze and its broken rope is drawn, ending by the spot the girl jumped from.

Dick has barely time to reach the sidewalk before puking.


	2. Jason and Tim

Jason stood on isle 6, hand absently clutching an almost empty basket while facing a wall of red labeled soup cans. 

He sighs disturbing the weird stillness of the place. He should get actual ingredients and do some real food a change, but canned soup was so _practical_.

He stares at the labels some more, barely registering the flavors he could pick, when soft steps disturb the generic jazz music playing on the speakers

A blonde, high ponytailed teenager stops by his side, a bright smile on her yellowed teeth, irradiating energy of those happy-go-luck people Jason labeled under the “Grayson” tag.

"G’mornin’, sir! Are you already a member of our platinum customers club?"

He took in her stained blue vest and the clipboard on her hand. Right. That was one of the reasons he hated shopping on large stores.

“Not interested, but thanks.”

“Ya get a 10% discount on your total today ‘n special deals on selected items.” Her smiled widened and she bat her long eyelashes to him. Jason held the urge to sigh once again.

“Look, kid. I don’t even know why I came here today…”

"Come on! I just need a coupa more signatures to beat my mark for tha month," she pleaded cutting him, her smile losing some strength to reveal a slight desperation. It was the 31st. Still it was only morning, she’d have the whole day. He was pretty sure she could make it.

“Miss, I’m sorry…” The girl pressed her lips together, the smile all gone and her eyes filling with water. Jason frowned confused.

“Please, sir?” she asked taking a step closer to him. “Ya wouldn't let a girl fail, would ya?” a perfect tear rolled from the corner of one eye. Damn. The girl was good. It had been years since he had seen such a cheap manipulation from a kid. Look at the smile, then watch as it falters. Take in the tears, hear the desperate pleading. She had played it by the book just as he used to back in his old days in the streets of Crime Alley. He had been the fucking author of that book.

And by the realization lighting up in her eyes, she knows he won’t fall for it. And instead of insisting on the crying and making a scene that no one would see - fucking hell, where were the other people of this market? – her posture changes, the tears vanish from her eyes and for a second he imagine flames burning in her irises. 

“If ya don’t sign it I’ll scream. I sware I’ll scream bloody murder and throw maself on those shelves ‘n yell ya slapped me. Cameras don’t reach this isle. No one would believe ya.”

She was undoubtedly Crime Alley material. He was a tall, muscular, scared and menacing man no one has seen around, while she was the cheery young employee. She’d got him good and Jason walked right into the trap. He couldn’t help a proud smirk. It was her turn to be taken aback.

“15% off the total today.” He said crossing his arms on his chest.

“I can’t do th…”

“Yes, you can. And one of those nice and big eco bags with the smiley face.”

She narrowed her eyes at him before mimicking his posture and throwing her chin up.

“Regular discount, no eco bag and ya get to walk outta here without the shame of being slapped by a seventeen years-old.”

So he agrees on it, both to avoid trouble and for the sake of the ballsy miss. He provides a bunch of false personal information to match the fake ID he gave her, and they end up chatting away distractedly about the joys of frozen food and sugary treats.

It is only when he returns the just signed clipboard and she frowns at the signature, he realizes something is up. She takes a double take between the signature and his face, eyes wide a surprised smile tugging at her lips.

He glances down at the clipboard on her hands. There, written just over the black line, his own cramped handwriting read a clear name. J. P. T. Wayne. What the fuck? 

“Shit, are you, really? I mean, a Wayne _Wayne_?”

He couldn’t possibly have signed that. He could barely ever remember signing that full name in his previous life. Not once in his new one, he was sure. There were clear memories of him, sitting in Bruce’s office, watching as he signed in the silver fountain pen B. Wayne and thinking how cool it was that he didn’t even had write his own first name. He had seen his initials followed by the new last name on plane tickets when he travelled with Bruce, and the occasional social invitation, but signing it? Holy shit. He had definitely lost his mind.

But before he could get his last few braincells to form a proper excuse, the girl laughs aloud and shakes her head. 

“Why would a Wayne be here? Besides, don’t get me wrong, but look at ya,” And then she says how much of a crush she has on Dick and how weird is it that she lives in the same apartment the second Wayne kid used to? “Like, there's a box of a coupa ol’ photos of the kid and a blonde lady deep in my ma’s closet. She plans on selling it to Wayne himself or a newspaper or whatever when the rent’s late again. From that ratty old shithole to a palace… kinda gives us hope, right?”

He stormed out of the supermarket, his brand new eco bag getting dark spots as the raindrops touched it, his hair falling flat against his head. It couldn’t be true. It had to be. When Catherine died, he left the house before Social Services burst in after him, he had left with barely anything, the need to survival stronger than the worry to grab any memento. After all that had happened, he believed it all would have been gone. But now, pictures of him and Catherine? He had to see it, had to look at her face again.

Jason makes his way back to the safe house almost in a jog, drops the smiley bag on the counter and jumps on the bike riding back to the core of Crime Alley and his old home. It wouldn't be difficult to break in and get out. The building is old, and the neighbours would look the other to any suspicious activities.

He gets there in record time and climbs the fire scape, unlocks the window, jumps in the empty apartment, goes straight to what he knows is the largest room’s closet. He doesn’t there to notice the changed wall colors, the newer, but just as cheap furniture and the ever-present smell of old cooking oil. 

Deep in the top shelf, he finds an old metal box. It is very light, and not something he recognizes. The lid is vaguely rusted and opens with a small screech of metal against metal. Inside, Catherine smile is bright and a bit blurred by the bad quality print of the old photo, in her lap, a red-faced toddler stares in awe to the lit candles of a blue birthday cake. He turns the picture and reads on its back _Jay’s 3_. A wave of emotion threatens to hit him, so he moves hurriedly to the others.

A young Catherine’ resting her head on Willi’s shoulder; the three of them in their best clothes standing outside a church; Jason sleeping in Catherine’s lap while she talks excitedly to a young man; a picture of the same man and his mother hugging each other tight as Willis watch bored with a beer in hand; the stranger again carrying him over his shoulders as Catherine laughs from a distance. He turns his photo too.

From uncle Bill to little Jay-man.

His hand shakes slightly. An uncle? Is there an uncle he doesn’t remember? He looks at the picture again. Yes, he can see the same light hair, bright eyes and the familiar wide grim he remembers Catherine having before things got bad. He called himself his uncle. Did he know Jason wasn’t really hers?

The last object was a plain white envelope addressed to William Johnson. Jason opened it clumsily tucking the box under his arm. A piece of paper with an address was folded over another three photos. The images were dark, and were clearly taken from a window judging from the reflections on it. Past the glass, a shinning crowbar was held high by a figure with their back turned, a on their feet a mass of yellow and red laid on the floor as a smoking woman watched by their side.

Jason couldn’t breathe. Someone else was there. Someone else was at that desert in Ethiopia and watched as he was beaten to death by the Joker. He fumbled to the other two pictures. The same perspective of the same scene taken a few seconds apart. 

It was only when ring started in his ears and the images became blurred that he realized a tightness in his chest. He forced his lungs to fill and release air slowly. When his heart stopped threatening to rip from his chest, he turned his attention to the address on the paper.

He could smell a bait it from miles away, and that was all it was. A bait specially set to catch him. A bait he was willingly walking into. 

He left through the window in a hurry, the only proof he was ever there was the content of the metal box being replaced by two packs of neatly folded hundred-dollar bills.

 

\------------------------

 

He should have slept. 

He had promised himself he would just take another look on the new R&D projects before sleeping, but it ended up having a few too many mistakes he had to fix, a handful of tables to correct, then morning came, and he took a quick shower before jumping on his car and heading to the office.

But of course, things didn’t go as planned. Of course he had to get stuck on Gotham's morning traffic, with not a drop of coffee or anything else to save him from being lulled by the rain drops falling rhythmically against the roof. Exhaustion dragged down his eyelids, made his arms refuse to hold the grip on the steering wheel.

So, yeah. Maybe he did end up taking an involuntary quick nap, and perhaps his body had relaxed to the point of letting go of the breaks, and, okay, perhaps the minor fender-bender accident had been his fault.

And everything would had just turned all right if the Porsche he hit didn't belong to Lina Goldberg.

"Shit, are you ok?” He called rushing towards the driver’s door that had just opened. “I’m sorry, I really am. I didn’t realize our..."

She stood in the rain, getting soaked wet instantly, ruining her stiletto shoes, and scrutinized him from head to toe. In her eyes there was a burning fire, first boiling in anger then sparkling coldly with interest, her journalist’s detective skills tingling as she had taken in his deplorable state. The sleepless nights, the way he favored his left ankle after the previous night's patrol, his still oddly carved out cheeks after last week’s meeting with the flu, despite Alfred's cooking. A story she could sell just staring her right in the face.

"It's Wayne, right? Timothy?"

"I… ah…yes. Do I know you somewhere?"

"I was on the audience watching your speech the day you got shot. Pretty awful." She had watched from the edge of her seat, her lips tugging in an involuntary hungry smile as the kid fell bleeding, the panicked team running for him, Red Robin’s red blur running to the rescue. Drama, unfolding like a perfect red carpet for her to stroll on and write about. She had gotten a promotion after that particular article.

"Yeah. Sorry about that too."

"Right. Listen, why don't you pay me a coffee and we let our insurances deal with it?" Yes, please. Coffee just sounded delicious.

“Sure. There’s a place just…”

“Perfect. I’ll follow you.”

What did she see? A rich, young man, tired to the bone, barely cohesive – yes, she would write it down exactly like that - driving around. Was he actually fit to drive? Was he actually fit to head the Wayne Enterprise’s R&D? Was he still dealing with his past trauma? Was he mentally and physical capable of doing it? 

What about his mentor? Did Wayne see it? Did he watched passively as the kid – _his_ kid – wore himself ragged to fulfill the burden the man has put him under? Was Wayne actually capable of handing his children? Wayne was a public known compulsive child collector that, for some yet not fully clear reason, drove them away once they grew older. The oldest left town suddenly, and rumors were they were spotted exchanging harsh words in highly respectable gala corners. At least that until the second kid straight up died. She didn’t have much information regarding the youngest one, except that he was a spoiled, angry and entitled little brat her colleagues loathed. But Timothy here… he might be just what she needed to have her real break through. The kid seemed o be struggling to keep afloat. And if she could see it, the world also deserved to watch.

He started his car and she watched as he passed her and waited until she followed him a few blocks down, the traffic not so packed anymore. There was something wrong about that family, about the way people treated them like royalty. Yes, it was a shame Wayne had lost his parents, and yes, his company did good to the city, and the employees, but no one was that nice, specially not in Gotham.

Half an hour later, when they shook hands and parted, she could see her article _Beloved Son or Blinded Employee?_ stamped with picture of Timothy Drake-Wayne’s spent face she had just caught, trending on the Gotham Gazette’s most read of the week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates coming during the week.  
> Now that the situations are presented, the plot will start to pick up some pace.
> 
> Thank you very much for the comments and kudos!  
> Let me know what you're thinking!


	3. Daddy's home

Chap 3

Bruce’s head hurt as he walks to his chair on the computer. He’d think the Zeta tube travels would stop affecting him a good while ago, but he might be wrong after all.

“How are our fellow neighbours from the galaxy, sir? The situation was handled properly, I believe.”

“Yes, Alfred, all back to normal,” he says removing his cowl and handing it over to the butler. “What about things here?”

“Master Damian made sure the brooding level of the house was kept intact in your absence. Master Timothy has ended last night’s patrol early in hopes to get some rest and Master Dick said he would be joining us for dinner.” Bruce frowned at that.

“It isn’t his day off. Did he say what happened?”

“No, sir. I believe it is a matter he wishes to discuss in person.”

Bruce sits down, a hand rubbing over his eyes. “Any word from Jay?”

“No, sir. Nor from the Red Hood,” A glass of water and a pill materialized by Bruce’s side and he thanks Alfred with a look. “Master Damian is having lunch at the kitchen.”

Bruce nods tiredly. “I’ll join him after a shower.”

Alfred takes the empty glass with a satisfied expression and disappeared into the elevator.

He turns the computer on and reads the rest of the League’s reports on the last few cases. The mission had been simple. An alien invasion in a partner planet and the Lanterns were in need of a diplomat to deal with the hostage situation. Superman could do the soft talking, but no one makd deals like Batman, so they traveled across the Galaxy trying to make an even agreement of a war they knew little about. It had been relatively easy, considering previous stunts the League had pulled before, though the discussions had taken place for almost three days. In the end, the Empress of the invaded world had been please with the result, gave them their blessing and off they went back to Earth.  
The rest of the League seemed to have encounter just as little trouble, and the reports from his own bats seemed just as uneventful. He could take a few minutes for a steaming shower without worrying the world would crumble under his feet.

But the peace didn’t last long.

When he enters the kitchen, Damian was sitting on a stool, an oversized hoodie covering his irritated expression as he frowned intensely at his plate. 

“Damian,” The kid looks up and the annoyance seems to ease a bit when he sees his father.

“Good morning, Father. I’m pleased you have returned well.” Bruce grunts in response and sits at his side pouring himself some juice. His hand slides down the boy’s small back in a silent greeting before reaching for the carefully folded morning paper Alfred has probably set to him since early morning. 

“Alfred says something has been disturbing you.” He opens the paper absently, eyes barely scanning the pages as he waits for Damian to answer.

“It is nothing. Titus has been sneezing. I believe it is due our time spent in the rain.”

“Are you sick too?”

“No!” He sounded affronted and Bruce hides his smirk on his glass. “My immune system is perfectly capable of enduring the elements.”

“How’s school?”

“It is a waste of time. I fail to realize why I have to attend…” Damian’s words get lost when his eyes find Tim’s face largely printed in the top of the page. He scans the column urgently, eyes narrowing at every overdramatic sentence and brow knitting together as the story unfolds. “…Father?”

Damian’s hand touches his arm Bruce looks down at him suddenly agitated. “When was the last time you saw Tim?”

Displeasure is all over the young face. “Thankfully not since he left the manor last week after being sick… again.”

A dreadful feeling sets in his gut. He drops the paper on the table and Damian quickly snatches it reading the same long column that kept replaying on his brain. He picks up his phone dialling Tim.

“I fucked up.” The teen answers on the first ring and Damian tuts in agreement while still reading.

“No, you didn’t. This journalist just wants her fifteen minutes of fame.”

“You really can’t do anything right, can you, Drake?” Bruce takes his phone on his left hand, moving it away from Damian.

“What? What journalist? Social Services just payed me a… Oh. Oh, that makes sense.”

“Social Services visited you?” He frowned, his grip tightening on the phone. That was too fast. Way too fast.

“Yeah. Came in with some sort of warrant? They looked around the house, questioned me about the job and my health... they weren’t impressed with my collection of energetic cans and exotic coffee beans…”

“Jesus, Tim.” 

“You ARE clearly damaged,” Damian nodding disapprovingly.

“Shut up, brat! It’s not my fault! I wasn’t exactly waiting visits!”

“Did they say anything?”

“No. They scribbled down a lot and left. I took a picture od the document they showed me. I’m sending it over to you now.”

“I’ll look into it. You don’t have to worry. They probably just feel pressured because of the article.”

“Yeah, right. It’s just… something feels off, you know? Anyway, sorry, B.”

“No reason to. And come over so we look into it together.”

“Father, don’t. Grayson is co-“ The sentence was shut by a look from Bruce that had Damian annoyedly pulling at his hood to cover more of his face.

“’’kay. And tell the kid I’m not trilled to see his ugly face too.”

“I WILL STAB YOU!” But Father had already turned the call off and is standing from his bench.

“Damian, stop it now! You have to learn to tolerate Tim or leave him alone!” Father was mad a him. Clearly Drake plotted it.

“But Father, he’s-“

“This is not a discussion! Tell Alfred I’m down at the cave and to watch for reporters.” He turned his back and left, checking his phone again, leaving Damian souring over his unfinished breakfast.

When the elevator finishes its decent to main deck, he has already checked the document Tim sent him and has a profile of Lina Goldberg and more than a clear view of how she thrives on the melodramatics of businessmen crumbling marriages and sensationalist review of events. The bit on Tim’s attack makes his skin crawl.

It is only when he’s halfway through the platform he realizes the computer is already taken. The intruder makes him stop dead on his tracks as he stares dumbfounded.

“Jay?” Every single time he sees Jason he finds himself in awe of having him back. His son was a miracle, all his kids were to him, but having a living and breathing Jason around was an actual, unprecedent gift he would had never dreamed of. 

“I gotta talk to you.” He says not turning from his chair, and Bruce puts his phone down, taking long strides to the computer. It couldn’t be good. That’s when he notices the screen, and he straightens his back for the discussion to come. “You knew about him.”

Not a question, a statement. Yes, Bruce knew about Bill Johnson, in fact the file Jason was looking into right now had been written by himself two nights after Jason first entered the manor and uploaded just once almost two years after.

“Yes. I ran a full investigation of the people surrounding you when you first arrived.”

“You never said anything.” Jason’s voice shook for a split second and Bruce watched his tense back and shoulders unable to say if he was angry or sad.

“I had no reason to believe you knew each other. He had a Military career, barely stationed long anywhere until being MIA.” Jason reached for the mouse and the picture of him over Bill’s shoulder popped up. Bruce’s entire expression softened in surprise. “Where’d you get this?”

“I found it.”

“Found?”

“A girl in a market. Doesn’t matter.” He turned the chair to look at Bruce, his mouth pressed in a hard line, eyes dull and dark. “There was also an address to something called Third Day’s Sanctuary.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s in Addis Ababa.” Bruce’s face grew a shade paler.

“Johnson has nothing to do with what happened.”

“Are you sure? His body was never found, he stationed all over the world, Africa included.”

“This is a trap.”

“Oh, is it?” Jason snarked as Bruce narrowed his eyes at him as if picking up something in the air.

“Something’s off...”

“About a religious organization? Please, do say more.”

“No. About you. You’re not telling me all of it.” That made Jason laugh humorless and Bruce found himself searching for the maddening green glow on Jason’s eyes again, suddenly afraid of his next steps.

“I’m looking for spiritual guidance, maybe uncle dearest can help me. Also this,” He presses a button and the picture shifts to a new one of a way too familiar dirty warehouse. Bruce’s mouth dries, his legs fell weak. “It was also in the package. There was somebody else there.”

“It can’t be.” Bruce mutters weakly. His brain is sluggish, like trying to take in a scene going way too fast. His headache is back full force making his eyes water.

“That’s what I’m about to figure out.” The older man has his eyes wide while taking in the photo, but there’s a weariness all over him, like his mind was having trouble to focus.

“Give me a minute,” His throat feels tight and he forces himself to work through the smell of burnt wood and flesh, over the heat of the still searing debris around him and the echoes of his own voice calling… “I’ll put the suit on. I’m coming with you.”

“It’s the middle of the day.”

“I don’t care,” It takes a herculean effort for him to pry his eyes out of the screen and focus on the very alive son sitting two feet away. “Let’s look into it. Tim is coming, we’ll do some research.” He licks his dry lips, takes a step towards the computer and Jason, his hand aching to touch him, to make sure he is there, and breathing and intact. “This is not right, Jay.” He can’t let Jason leave the cave. He can’t let his kid be dragged into this story again, once was a time too much. He won’t let it happen.

“I know. It isn’t right.” Jason says, slowly standing from his chair. “I’m going anyway.”

“No. I forbid you to-” Bruce starts but Jason is already putting on his helmet.

“Sorry, old man.” He reaches for something in his jacket pocket. “I just had to use the computer.” There’s a small red ball between his fingers, he drops it in the floor between them. Bruce’s brain registers what that is, but his muscles are unable to react in time. “I’m borrowing the jet.”

The small ball explodes, and the cave is filled with a blinding light and a loud, painful sound that sends Bruce to his knees clutching at his head in agony. The last thing he registers is Jason’s feet casually walking away from him.

\----------------------

“Master Bruce? Sir? There you are.” Alfred is at his face looking worried and uncharacteristically spent.

“Jason.” He grumbles forcing himself to sit, but the entire medical bay around him twists and turns and he’s thankful the man is there to stop his from falling from the cot.

“Easy. The lad left with the jet. And I though Master Dick was the rebel when he stole the Maserati.” Bruce let his eyes fall closed, his head threatening to split in half.

“We gotta stop him.”

“He turned off the GPS. We don’t know where he went, but Master Tim is at it right now.”

“Addis Ababa. Third Day’s Sanctuary.” He tries to open his eyes, but the lights make it impossible. “We need to stop him.”

“Bruce…”

“It’s a trap. I tried telling him...”, he stops to swallow the bile rising in the back of his throat.

“You are in no condition to go anywhere. Also, Master Jason has proved he can take care of himself. Let him be for the moment.” He rests a slender hand on Bruce’s arm. “I’m afraid we have other pressing issues to solve.”

“What is it?”

“It’s Master Dick. He’s home after being discharged from a case. For what I could pry of him, it involves his late parents. The young sir is ratter intoxicated to be coherent.”

Bruce exhales putting a hand over his eyes, trying to block the light.

“What kind of nightmare is this?”

“One we are bound to face, I am afraid.” A bell rings from the monitors outside the med bay and Alfred exhales, standing to look at the monitors closely. “It’s the front door.” He tells Bruce and presses a button to speak. “Wayne Manor.” He greets formally.

“This is official Trannor and Jones. We have a Subpoena for Mister Bruce Wayne.”

Alfred glances back at the cot where Bruce is sitting up shakily.

“Send them in." He stands up and grinding his jaw. "We start facing it now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys have been great!  
> Thank you so much for you feedback!
> 
> Please, do keep commenting. I want to know what you're thinking.


	4. A house full of visitors

Chap 4

They had just gone up for tea after settling Father on the medical bay after Drake found him on the Cave floor and called for help. It was between tense sips and pensive lost expressions that Grayson burst through the front door, stumbling around, yelling frantically for Bruce in between hiccups and horrified glances to the walls around him.

Tim and Pennyworth had managed to calm him down and lead him up to his room as Damian hovered uselessly, watching Grayson collapse in muttering sobs, violent shivers and barely conscious puking. 

They had tried to make Dick talk and had to make a collective effort to figure out his parent’s death and his latest case had in fact a real connection and not simply two disconnected thoughts loose in his muddled brain. Drunk, Alfred had said. But they all knew PSTD when from miles away, and Dick was riding high on it.

He stayed in the dark room, long after the other two left, lying at Grayson’s bed with his side pressed against his brother’s back. Richard was very sensorial, it was only natural to provide physical console in such an occasion.

And maybe Grayson was right. After spending so long at the manor, he had learned to enjoy the comforts of a tight hug, a warm hand on the shoulder, a ruffling of his hair. He had sought it, even. Dick Grayson had introduced him to a life of safety, easiness and enjoyment through love he had never experienced before. He had been loved, surely, but Mother’s affection was shown through precise words and diminished smiles. 

Before Gotham, love was the appreciation of a flawless move and perfect kill. It took strain and pain and often left a sour taste in his mouth. Now it was the new cookbook in the kitchen cabinet, filled with brand new vegetarian recipes, the noise of paws against the stone floors when he returned from school, the gentle late-night tuck in from big and ruff hands, a bright smile under the city’s moonlight. It was quiet, tender, soft and warm. 

And mother was coming to take him away. 

He closed his eyes to keep unasked tears from flowing and grit his teeth. He was not a crying baby. He was Robin, he just needed to feel like it. 

That’s why he was there now, sitting between the upstairs balustrade to watch the front hall, where Father stands wearily frowning to the piece of paper handed to him.

“I’m been summoned for neglect? Tim is perfectly fine…”

“Not according to Social Services report.” The shorter one of the two officers says with a tiny smug smile on his face.

“Is this all because of that damn article? It has no evidence besides the ill intentions of its journalist…”

“Sir, save the discourse for the judge, will ya?” The tallest of the two, officer Trannor, Damian recalls, says almost apologetic shoving his hands on his jacket pocket.

“And he is emancipated. He shouldn’t be getting these visits at all!”

The two officers share a look and Damian leans forward to better hear them. 

“Yeah, well… about that…” The same man starts.

“Though back at the office many people remember it - I mean, the event made it in every paper – there’s no evidence of it.” Jones, the other officer says shrugging a bit.

Father’s expression reminds Damian of the marble statues at the west wing, except for the slow blink he takes.

“You mean you’ve lost the documents?”

“Tt,” the three heads turn up to Damian’s hiding place. “Typical. Drake is a lost cause, but not worse than your public record management.” Father squeezes his lips together, and Damian is actually surprised Brucie hasn’t showed up yet. 

“Actually,” Jones says looking from him to Father. “There’s no documents to lose. Not even the judge records, or court appointments, absolutely nothing.” He sounds awfully pleased with himself and Damian has the urge to land a kick on his greasy face. “We literally Googled it, and there’s not a single mention of the event.”

“There’s plenty on the day you adopted him, though.” Trannor says again. “And that was enough to make our guys start doubting themselves.”

“But then we checked the serial number of the files around that period,” Jones was barely containing his smirk. “Not a single one missing.”

“This is ridiculous.” Father says in what would have been exasperation, if his mucles hadn’t been replaced by stone.

“In so many ways…” Trannor begins, but Jones cuts in practically bouncing on his heels out of excitement.

“I mean, even though it all says Mister Drake-Wayne lives here, the papers that got to the Workers’ hands showed the address to where he was living downtown!” The look Father sent the officer, was like a needle against a balloon, popping the eagerness out the man.

“I have the copies of the entire process in my office. Gentlemen, if you’d, follow me.” Father said turning to inside the house and looking up directly at him and Damian felt himself tense still in his hiding spot. It was Batman telling him to stay quiet and out of sight until danger passed. 

“Isn’t your eldest a cop, too?” He hears before they disappear down the hall.

And then he was hurrying his way down secret stairs.

“…rubbish fake exposé!’ Stephanie Brown’s voice makes Damian stop dead on his tracks. “Not even that ridiculous flowery prose can hide she’s making stuff up and shitting it out. She’s a sensationalist melodrama writer who twists the truth to-“

“Not the point, Steph. The fact is she convinced half the internet and a judge Bruce is exploring me.”

“This is ridiculous! Cheap TMZ stuff!”

“Yeah, we know that. But can you blame people from believing her? Look at my face in this. I’d easily pass as an extra in a zombie movie. No make up needed.” Damian climbs down a couple more steps, silent as a cat.

They were both right, Damian has read the article. It started reminding the public of who Drake was and how tragical it had been when he was orphaned, jumped to an oddly found description of the picture that same newspaper had published of him and Father the day he was officially adopted, and took dark corner comparing the young and bright kid to the sickly-looking teenager. The photograph only enhanced the unhealthy traits the text described.

Then it shifted to talk about the company, specially R&D, highlighting the rising numbers and the famous projects people would recognize from the news – all of them developed and expanded under Tim’s capable hands and clumsy signature.

But Goldberg was aiming at a different target. What had Bruce Wayne done during that period? Where had he gone? Gotham society had noticed the man’s sudden disappearance to a retreat in Bali or whatever eccentric billionaires went. Still WE thrived, and Tim stood out more and more.

Then the accident happened. Tim got shot while representing the company, spent months dragging himself around in crutches, and where was his so-called father? What kind of man leaves his son to endure such a difficult time, specially one with pretty much illimited means to go check on him?

Not so veiled accusations and innuendos pictured Bruce as the absent father and abusive businessman who saw the perfect opportunity to have his bachelor escapades by dropping the weight of a great company on his (not so) recently acquired sixteen-year-old’s shoulders (whom he emancipated, of course. He didn’t need Social Services on his heels since the kid worked . He was the only family the poor rich boy had and surely he would do his best to make his papa proud. Of course it wasn’t like the teen could lead the entire thing by himself, and officially, Lucius Fox was the real head. Yet, things weren’t thriving nearly as much before.

And now, there Timothy Drake-Wayne stood, barely a shadow of his past joyful self (Joyful? Damian would hardly describe Drake with any adjective close to _joy _), clearly worn down by responsibility, carelessness and working himself raw to please his mentor and boss. And the thing was, daddy was back in town. Had the situation worsened because of him? Was she the only one who believed there was something else off with the ever charming Brucie?__

__Her encounter with Timothy had being a cry for help from a child in clear distress. She was relieved she could count on the Gotham Gazette’s readers to ease her mind and assure her she had imagined things._ _

__The last paragraph was some nonsense of Father also scaring his previous children away until he came around. Her description of Damian being a “little pup in training to kill” had been the most accurate part and his personal favorite._ _

__“But that is not where the problem is. It was way too fast. They showed up at my place like, ten hours after the thing was post online, only eight after it left the printers.”_ _

__“Nothing in Gotham moves so fast. But, of course it would to such an awful article…”_ _

__“Personally, I enjoyed the piece,” Damian said declaring his presence while casually marching down the last few steps. “It is truly fantastic how she grasped your ridiculousness and underdeveloped brain, Drake.”_ _

__“Damian.” Steph greeted crossing his arms at him._ _

__“Fatgirl.” He greets back raising his chin to her. Brown huffs unimpressed._ _

__“Step up your game, kid. That’s an old one.”_ _

__“I’m taking you’re sneaking out.” Drake says and Damian tuts._ _

__“You are indeed a prodigy.” But the snark falls flat as Tim turns to Steph._ _

__“Then you won’t have to go alone.”_ _

__“I’m not joini-“_ _

__“Yes, you are. Unless you want to benched again. Bruce won’t be so pissed if you two tag along.” Damian can’t help but frown._ _

__“Fine.”_ _

__“And we’re taking my bike,” She says adjusting her cowl. “Don’t get ideas about driving”_ _

__“Then keep your hair from my face.” he says going after her to the parking spots. She rolls her eyes but braids her hair in quick movements._ _

__When the cool night air hits their face, Damian feels like he can breathe again._ _

__\----------------------_ _

__When Dick opens his eyes, its Barbara’s he meets._ _

__They change no words. She squeezes his hand and strokes his hair until he feels like he can sit down without upsetting his stomach even further. She offers him a glass of water and an aspirin. He takes it in small gulps and rests his forehead against hers, eyes closed, breaths combined. A minute pass, then two, then they stop counting._ _

__For as talkative as he is, Dick feels that Barbara’s silences convey much more depth than he could squeeze in a thousand words. It is grounding, understanding, fulfilling. A considerable different one from those Bruce carries around._ _

__It is only when he returns from the shower, he finds his voice._ _

__“How’d you know?” It is a foolish question, but he’s glad she will take it by the invitation it is._ _

__“Dad told me,” For as much as he appreciated the quiet, Bab’s voice is like crystalline water clearing away the dark corners of his mind. “He got worried.”_ _

__He sits by the edge of his bed, hair still dripping wet on the towel around his waist and searches her face for any sign that will justify the freefalling sensation he is feeling. Her face is open to him, vulnerable like she rarely shows. He finds his balance._ _

__“I don’t understand,” The words come out shaky and raspy. He swallows to clear them, five them the renewed strength he is feeling. “What does it mean?”_ _

__She reaches for his hand and he holds it between his calloused ones. “They identified her,” Bab’s says quietly. “Her name was Donna Scott. She was severely depressed, unemployed, left no children, had no family. They identified her by old records on Saint Claire’s Mental Institution.”_ _

__“So she really was a jumper.”_ _

__“We’re led to believe so. They are still checking prints and DNA on the apartment. It used to belong to James Wederson, a record store owner.”_ _

__“If only the posters were about music…” He says standing up and moving to his closet.  
“No connections at all with the circus?”_ _

__“None that I could pinpoint yet,” She watched as he put on a shirt and boxers. “Didn’t exactly had much time to do some digging before coming, but I’m on it now.”_ _

__“I should go back to the station. Maybe they found something.”_ _

__“I’m checking Rohrbach e-mails and recording her phone calls. If she gets a lead, we’ll know.”_ _

__Dick walks to her and bends down, resting his hands on the sides of her chair. “Thank you, Babs,” they’re so close he feels her warm breath against his face. “I can’t stress it enough.”_ _

__She smirks softly. His eyes are still swollen and reddened from crying. His entire body language bent and tired. “We’ll figure it all later, Boy Wonder.” He cracks a shy grim, a small victory for her. “Maybe after some pancakes?”_ _

__“I don’t think I could ea-“_ _

__His ringtone startles them and is followed by a low ping from Bab’s phone. Dick fumbles around the sheets to find his mobile while she frowns at her screen. “It’s Rohrbach,” she says as he accepts the call and puts on speaker._ _

__“Grayson.” He answers shortly._ _

__“Sorry to bother, heard you had a rough night.”_ _

__“Don’t mention it.” He grumbles humorlessly. “What happened?”_ _

__“We just got a message from Blackgate. Zucco wants to see you.”_ _

__

__The wannabe burglar lays unconscious on the roof, blood oozing from his mouth, but he’ll be fine. They already called the police._ _

__“Ok, what’s the deal?” Batgirl asks annoyed while they turn and leap through dark roofs. “There was no need to dislocate that guy’s jaw.”_ _

__“It was a roundhouse kick. I meant to shatter it.”_ _

__“I get you’re upset.” They jump to another, lower rooftop. “You are even more sullen than normal. If this is about the Tim thing…”_ _

__“Why on Earth would I worry about Drake’s decline?” She deaccelerates at that and he joins her pace against his will._ _

__“Because this isn’t only about him. And maybe they can take him away? Or arrest your Father?”_ _

__“Father has done nothing but house an already deteriorating imbecile. They can’t arrest him for pitying Drake.” He says forcing a confidence he doesn’t really feel. When Batgirl says nothing, he feels offended. “He did nothing wrong!” His voice resonates a bit louder than he meant and he corrects it. “They can’t do that.”_ _

__“They can try.” She flicks her hair back and sits at the roof’s ledge, back turned to the quiet streets. “But like, Bruce’s a gazillionaire. I’m sure it will be okay.” Her gaze fixes on him and her tone softens. “But if it’s not it, what’s the matter?”_ _

__He looks at Brown. Really looks at her and searches for her motives. He finds no mockery or dismissal. Damian can picture her eyebrows pinched together under the cowl in plain worry. He considers that maybe that little crease on her upper lip might mean love too._ _

__“It is mother.” He chooses to say. “She’s coming for me.” Brown’s face falls flat._ _

__“What do you mean ‘coming for you’? Does B knows-”_ _

__“Do not be ridiculous, Brown.”_ _

__“Names… And you gotta tell him! At least give him a heads up…!” he brushes her off by turning on his heels and walking to one side of the roof’s end, hands clasped on his back._ _

__“She sent me a message. Her intentions weren’t clear, but she wouldn’t warn me of them.” He turns on his heels again walking towards the opposite end. “I take it she believes my training as Robin has met its goals,” He reaches the edge and stares at the dark alley beneath. “I know it won’t take her long to fulfill her vow.” He turns his head to her. “That’s the reason you’ll assist me.”_ _

__She almost falls from the ledge. “Wait, what?”_ _

__“I need a speech that conveys all the reasons why my time spent as Robin has not reached its zenith just yet.”_ _

__“And you want me write… to Talia al Ghul… a speech?”_ _

__“Now I know why you and Drake were together. You take turns to use the same brain.” He snaps his fingers. “Keep up Brown. Weren’t you a Valedictorian?”_ _

__“Yeah, a month ago, in high school…”_ _

__“I’m sure your skills, however meager they are, will be of great value.” She would have rolled her eyes if she wasn’t still so shocked._ _

__“You can’t be serious.”_ _

__Damian stops right in front of her and leans close to her face. From her sitting position, he has some height advantage. “Do I look like I’m joking?”_ _

__

__Hours later, after he’s cleaned up and pajama-clad, he goes straight into Father’s office seeing the light still on. Brown is probably right. It wouldn’t hurt to prepare him._ _

__He knocks and opens the door. It takes him a second of staring at the scene to process he is too late._ _

__Father is sitting at his desk chair, the tip of a long sword touching his Adam’s apple. Talia is leant close to his face, one knee bent over the centuries old wooden desk, eyes and smile as sharp as the weapon she’s holding._ _

__“Hello, my son.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! According to my outline we have three more chapter to go.  
> And I know it doesn't exactly follow cannon, but I couldn't help myself. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and for the comments!
> 
> I've spent years postponing writting and seeing your feedback is helping me to start having some confidence.  
> I know there's A LOT to improve, but I'll get there slowly. :)
> 
> Thanks a looot!!


	5. Clouds in the horizon

Chap 5

“Hello, my son.” Talia says not moving an inch from her offensive position over Bruce’s desk.

“Mother.” Damian says rigidly, hand still holding the doorknob. Talia turns her head slightly in his direction, but her eyes don’t leave Father’s.

“I came for you.” Her free hand caress Bruce’s cheek. “Thank your father for your training days. I wished your stay was longer, yet I understand your training here was fulfilled.”

“You’re not taking him.” Father barks, his light eyes shinning in rage. “He’ll not go back for you and Ra’s to torture him even-“

“Torture? We are shaping him to be the greatest leader the League of Assassins has ever seen. You have contributed to it.”

“No,” Bruce says sharply, and Damian registers the subtle tensioning of his back muscles. “I thought him a moral code, to fight for justice and value lives.”

“You thought him weakness, and he is intelligent enough to see it.”

“This is not true,” Damian hears his voice breaking the tense air.

“Benevolence.” She seems to spit the word as if they burned her tongue. “will grant you nothing but the continued life your enemies. Failure.”

“Leave him alone,” he steps into the office and makes his way to the desk, stopping beside Bruce’s chair. It was foolish of him to spend the night preparing words and not actions to stop Mother. He wishes he had had time. He wishes he had his sword. “Compassion and humanity are honorable traits-“

“You don’t want to embarrass your father. I commend you for that,” she says lowering the sword, gaze still held on the man. “I received your distress message. I, just as you expressed, fear he is not making a decent job preparing you for your destiny.”

Damian’s confusion is clear on his face. “What?” He looks between his parents, confused. “I never sent any message.” Bruce’s anger seems to be cut by half in the blink of an eye.

“You said you were ready.” Her tone dipped for a dangerous one, an unspoken treat in between the lines. “Your grandfather awaits. Come now.”

“He is not leaving.” Father commands, standing from his chair, a protective arm extended in front of Damian’s chest. “It’s a misunderstood.”

“ _You_ sent _me_ a message saying you were coming!” Damian attacks and Talia narrows her eyes at him.

“It was you who wrote. Asked me to prepare the Great Duel for your return.”

Damian’s mouth goes dry and he stomach turns. “I’m not… I didn’t…”

“The opponent has been chosen. You can’t scape it now.”

“Talia, listen to me,” Father was saying, but he too was spending time with words when actions should take place. “It was not him. I’m… we’ve been attacked with false messages and manipulative information. Damian never wrote you a thing,” he motioned to a leather folder over the desk. “Look.”

Suspiciously Talia reached for the folder and opened it. Damian couldn’t help but crane his neck to peer. She shifted impatiently through the first pages before heavily dropping the folder against the wooden surface. “These are empty.”

“Exactly. Those are Tim’s emancipation papers. I keep copies from all the boy’s documents in my safe. I needed them this morning and this is what I found. No one came in here, I checked surveillance. In fact, I believe the paper is the exact same, only the information is gone. I checked with my lawyers, the same happened with their copies.”

Damian’s eyes grow wide. “If it can remove information, it might be able to add.” He asks as she reaches for the pages again, runs her fingers on the blank surface. Father agrees with a grunt.

“It changes nothing,” Talia says visibly shaken. “The Duel was called. You know the rules,” she turns to Bruce, an uncharacteristic soft tone in her voice. “If Damian does not survive, we will admit failure and seek another successor.” She sets her stare on her child. “But, Beloved, if he doesn’t show up…”

“Then I’ll be taken as a coward. I’ll brig shame to the al Guhl name and the League.”, he turns to face the woman, his voice firm as steel once resolution settled in. “I’m coming with you, Mother.”

“No,” Father grips at his shoulder. “We’ll explain it was a mistake. I’ll talk to Ra’s, he’ll see reason.”

“If he changes the rules, it will be taken as favoritism. Our son will be taken as weak, a stain on the al Guhl lineage. He has to go.”

“I won’t allow it.” He squeezes Damian’s shoulder holding him in place. “I’m not sending him to unnecessary danger. He’s not going back to the League, there’s no point on this fight!”

“It is a confront to measure true strength and battle abilities. Magic is not allowed.” Damian says slowly. “If it is proven the event was set through supernatural forces, it may be canceled.” 

Talia points her sword to Bruce’s chest. “He’s coming. It will not be the Bat to bestow a shadow over the al Guhl.”  
“Let me go, Father,” Damian said looking up to Bruce. “I’m sure you’ll be able to prove it. But I need to go and prepare in case it comes to the fight.”

“The Duel is set to take place in two days, beloved. If you manage to prove it, I’ll make sure it stops.”

\-------------------

He sweats profusely under his helmet.

It’s Africa, he should’ve known better. But again, he had died there once, why make it easier the second time? Sure, he could have just carried it under his arm and clasped it on when the bullets began to fly – and they would fly. It wasn’t like they didn’t know who he really was.

It was very early morning in Addis Ababa, the temperature was sky-high, and barely a soul wandered the streets. He had checked the address three times already, could see printed inside his eyelids. The Third Day’s Sanctuary, he finally got there.

It looked like a regular building. Square windows in a squared construction. The outside painting was light and dirty, with only the place’s name painted in a light blue tone already discolored by the burning sun.

There was a tinted glass door, partially cracked on the bottom. He pushed it lightly and was unimpressed when it slid open with the scratching of old metal.

What did surprise him was the dozen people sleeping on the large Persian carpet a few feet from where he stood.

The noise made a couple of them move, the largest one of the sleeping masses sitting up and blinking slowly at him.

“It is you.” He said, a legitim bright smile lighting up his face. “You finally came.”

The other are stirring, round eyes looking at him confused and then full of hope. There’re children in a corner, women poke their reads from the other room.

“Uhn… guys? What’s going on?” His metallic voice asks, as the first man stands slowly.

“We have been waiting for you.” Jason stops, his brain going haywire both trying to keep up with what is happening, an to observe the movements of all those people around him. “Would you please, show us your face?” 

“You’re taking me for the wrong man.” Jason says as the man laughs aloud, a bit nervous and clearly in awe.  
“No. I don’t think so.” He puts his hands on his own chest. “I’m Kofi. Please, follow me.”

Jason looks around again to the small mass of people looking. Some stare, others have their eyes filled with tears, a woman is slowly approaching him, her wrinkled hand extended trying to touch him. He doesn’t dare to move a muscle, hands itching to grip at the gun at the holster in his leg.

“It is written you’ll come back confused, memoryless,” Kofi says after a few seconds, and his deep voice reverberates on the white painted brick walls. Some heads nod. “Demons did guide you to their wicked dark paths, restored your deceased body through their vile means, but strip you from your soul only to kill you again, this time, from within.”

Jason feels every single hair of his body stand up, he has to swallow and lick his lips before asking: “Who are you people?”

Kofi’s smile grows even wider. “We are the people who believe in the holy images. We are the ones who chose to wait for your return, knowing you would bring us what we desire and its ours by right.” 

“I brought you nothing.”

“You brought us questions. I can assure you we have the answers, if you’d follow me…”

“I ain’t going anywhere. Now,” He swears that not even the modulator can keep his voice steady. “What do you know about Bill Johnson?”

“He was one of our founders,” a voice says from his right.

“No, he was one of the first chosen!” somebody else say on his left.

“Bill Johnson was an American army soldier,” Kofi says, the bright smile never faulting. “He was found in the edge of the great Danakil Desert weeks after his entire platoon died in an ambush on their way to Djibouti. He was badly injured and was taken in an asylum until he started to write about what he had seen there.”

“There’s no book under his name.”

“Of course not! They would send him back home, away from the wonders he had seen!” Kofi exclaimed and the people around him agreed.

“He wrote about the wonders he saw after his third day on the desert. He wrote about an angel falling to the sand as a boy, and raising from it as a man, both dreadful and astounding.”

“Show him, Kofi!” a woman cried in the distance, and voices erupted in agreement. Hands touched his legs and gently pushed him forward, a calloused one carefully pulled at his hand and he followed the senior man who had risen from the ground and coaxed him forward.

“We have a mural. Two days ago it pictured only the verses of the Witnesses of Light, Bill Johnson being one of them. But then…” They crossed a doorframe to a room on their left and Jason stopped, incapable of moving a single muscle.

It was a painting in vivid colors of himself, his shinning red helmet gleaming under his arm, his white strand of hair falling over his left eye.

“I don’t understand.”

“You died, and supreme forces brought you back with a renewed purpose. Isn’t that what you always wondered? Why me? What am I doing here? You have wondered in the dark looking for a goal, a greater good that would fill the void in your chest.”

“I don’t know about the ‘good’ part.” He tried to break the tension, but it felt flat to his own ears. What if it was that? He had never figured out why he had come back, but maybe the answer was in the place it first happened? He had never been a man to believe in God or saints. But Catherine did. She had taken him to church some Sundays back when she was well, and then very near the end. God hadn’t helped him then and he doubted He had changed His mind now.

“Johnson wasn’t the only one to tell those stories,” Kofi was saying again, standing by his side, shoulders almost touching. “There were other soldiers, as years went by, that came from the desert with similar stories of grandeur and salvation. They all claimed a superhuman force was to come and save us.”

“I’m not a savior”

“No, you are not.” Jason’s head snapped at him. Kofi’s smile was just as bright. “It is written you’ll bring proof.”

“Proof of what?”

“Evidence of your resurrection. Of your death and return in the sacred lands.”

“I know nothing about sacred lands.”

“But you do know about dying.” Kofi affirms and Jason knows there’s no reason to deny it. He puts his hand in his pocket and takes out the envelope of photos. 

“It was a warehouse, in the middle of nowhere, in the desert.” The people that were seating in the front room are now standing all around him, vibrated with excitement as their speaker takes the photos as if they were holy. 

“Danakil is a sacred desert. There are forces under the sand human minds aren’t bound to comprehend.” He looks into the photos and then at Jason seeming satisfied. “You can rest now, our promised angel. Your journey is complete.”

“I told you I’m not saving anyone.”

“No. Not you exactly.” Kofi says and the smile on his face turns into something sharper, crazed. Jason reaches for his gun, but the holster is empty, a firm hand grabs his wrists and a knife is pulled against his throat. He tries to kick and twist, but there are too many of them, grabbing at his limbs and stopping his movements, as ants crawling over a candy left over the table. “You are the one who’ll awake the real power to bring us victory and triumph over our enemies.” He is trapped. Jason is trapped and the mass of people seem to have gone larger. They are packed inside the room, the heat now almost unbearable under his Red Hood costume.

“I’m not doing shit for you!” He spats defenseless and then Kofi is approaching his hands going around the helmet looking for a latch. 

There’s a hiss, and hot and dry air fills his nose brining the smells of sweat, dirt and humid old walls. Kofi stares at him, like a child seeing a puppy for the first time and whispers. “Your job now is easy. Something you have done before. You are our saintly sacrifice. All you need to do is die again.” He turns to his crowd, a million-waltz smile lighting his entire face. “Our angel has come!” Kofi shouts. ”Salvation is here!”

A roar of triumph hits him from all directions, and Jason can’t move, there’s no space. His breaths are coming too fast as panic rises in a rampant, his eyes sting and burn for the big drops of sweat falling into them. He can’t see, he can’t breathe, he can’t move. He is trapped in the tight dark again, seven feet under dirt where no one can hear him.

No. This time there’s something else with him inside the wooden box. Something big and strong and full of tentacles all over his body and squeezing his bones. 

He is dead and buried again. And the same name he woke screaming to all those years ago, rip through his throat as a cry of an agonizing animal.

\---------------------

Alfred finds Bruce by the Cave computer’s chair slouched over the keyboard, head in his hands and eyes closed. If he didn’t know better, he’d taken the man as asleep.

“I woke up to the sound of a helicopter on the east grounds. I believe it was under your permission Miss Talia and Master Damian embarked on the aircraft?”

Bruce says nothing, his breathing still even. Alfred awaits, slowly closing his robe tighter. It takes minutes until Bruce inhales deeply and exhales loudly, his muscles giving away some of the tension. When he speaks, his voice is a deep growl, almost Batman’s.

"They are coming after my children, Alfred. Individually. And I don't know who they are or how to stop them."

"At least the intention is clear, sir. The aim is to set this family apart."

Bruce turns to look at him, exhaustion and sadness weighting his expression down. 

“How do I win a war against an invisible enemy?” It is an old conversation, one they had many times before, and Alfred knows Bruce simply needs to hear it aloud.

“You defeat them in battle after battle, and learn to see them.” He stops and watches for a reaction, but Bruce seems too tired to even blink properly. So he continues. ”Thankfully we know where and when the first encounter will be. The courtroom opens in five hours. Now it is you who should get some rest.” Bruce blinks a few times, then nods slowly and stands. 

“Thank you, old friend.” He briefly rests a hand on Alfred’s shoulder before entering the elevator. “I just need to do something first.”

He finds the who was looking for sitting at the den, laptop open on his folded legs. The teen has earphones plugged in, and Bruce is surprised to see he’s watching a video feed from his last mission with the League.

On the screen he sees the Empress addressing her people, himself and Superman by her side looking oddly static and solid among the sea of slender bodies dressed in floating white gowns. 

The Empress’ long and greenish arms, skin filled with numerous, tiny symbols he recognized as the local alphabet, lift up towards the sky, each hand directed to a different moon. "I proclaim, our friends, that you'll meet grandness and great power,” He hears it in his mind, clear as day. “The binds that hold you back will be undone and your path will be free for triumph.". The video ends and Tim starts it again, frowning.

“Tim.” He interrupts, making the boy jump and yell startled.

“Jesus, B! Wanna kill me?”

“I want to talk to you.” Tim sends him a brief look before focusing on the screen again.

“If this is about that article…”

“It is.”

“… then we have nothing to talk about. They are lies after lies after lies, you know that.”

“There’s some truth in them.”

“Bullshit! It’s not like you abandoned us to go off to a spa in Indonesia or whatever. And I took the responsibilities because I wanted. You’re not the abusive monst-“

“Am I not?” Tim lifted an eyebrow.

“Are you serious?”

“I know you stay up all night patrolling, and I made you head of department,” The teen frowns annoyed.

“I earned it. You know the numbers better than any…”

“I know about your unhealthy diet and sleeping schedule, still I let you live alone. I hold you boys on high standards, and you feel the need to prove yourselves over and over often taking unnecessary risks-”

“Bruce, stop.” Tim tries, but Bruce can’t seem to stop now.

“You’re seventeen, Tim. You’re a kid. My kid. A father should try to make his kids happy, not put them in masks to get beaten every ni-“

Tim’s hand is over his mouth, and the surprise makes him stop talking. 

“I understand you’re hurt,” Bruce takes a breath to reply, but Tim presses his palm harder over his lips with a warning glare. “I understand you’re upset. Yeah, things are shitty and there’s something clearly after us, but it’s not the time to doubt your parenting methods.” He takes his hand away sitting back down against the cushions. “I’m okay. We’ll go to the judge in a few hours, make sure he sees everything is fine, I’ll promise I’ll have less coffee and get more sleeping hours. It will be fine.” He takes his laptop back up his legs and forced a dismissive inflexion on his voice. “I chose this life. I knocked at your door knowing exactly what I was poking at.”

“Knowing exactly?” Bruce asks but he is visibly less stressed, so Tim lets himself relax slightly.

“Well, no. If I knew your kid would be such a little brat, I’d turned around back home and burn down those photos.” Bruce nods slightly, the tightening on his stomach loosening by an inch. 

“I needed you then, and I need you now.” He says quietly and his heart aches over the surprised and then adoring way Tim looks at him.

“Yeah. Of course, B… Look,” He says turning the computer screen so they both can look at it. “I’ve been monitoring Jason. He’s landed a while ago, he turned of the comms but there’s no news of bloody massacres, gore killings or criminal explosions – I put on an alert just in case. Babs left with Dickie back to Bludhaven, I take it she’ll keep an eye at him. And… well, we know Talia is a lunatic killer, but she’ll keep Damian safe.” He sinks a bit on the cushions yawning. “I know it is all connected… just… how?”

Bruce looks down at Tim and reaches forward wishing to caress the teen’s face, smooth away the purple circle under his eyes. Instead, he closes the laptop lifting it from his lap and putting it down at the coffee table. “I have a theory. But it can wait a few hours.”

“No,” Tim says making an effort o straighten himself through heavy eye-lids. “I’m invested now.”

“Bed. Now. We both need some sleep.” Bruce says. “We have a meeting with the judge first thing in the morning. We need to look at least half-alive.” Tim mumbles a complaint but stands from the couch and stretches. When he goes upstairs Bruce follows but only lays on his own bed after he’s sure Tim is asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mystery is finally coming to an end!
> 
> I really have no words to thank you all for reading.  
> Keep sending comments telling me what you're thinking!


	6. Storm is here

Chap 6

Babs sits in her car, laptop open on her lap, watching nervously the video feed. They had parked in the very back of a parking building, only a couple blocks from Blackgate’s visitors’ entrance early in the morning.

Dick had waited, biting his thumb and kicking his leg up and down quickly, while she hacked into the prison’s security system.

“I’ll be in there with you all the time.” She had said to him handling a tiny piece of ear equipment.

“Should this be a reassurance, or a warning?” He asked tensely, no smiles pulling at his lips as he slides the comm into his ear.

“Both.”

BPD comes about half an hour later, and Dick meets them inside the massive building. His chief is there, looking pissed as always, but so is Gordon and for some reason, it comforts him a tiny bit. The guards are not happy. BPD shouldn’t be there are all, still it is Rohrbach who wires him and pats his shoulder while sending him in.

Zucco is there, sitting on the table, chained to his wrists. He looks unhappy and greets him with a “Grayson”.

Dick sits down rigidly. He had done it multiple times, sometimes with only his badge, other with a domino mask, and a few with the cowl. He found going as Dick Grayson was the most difficult one.

Maybe it was because of the man he was seeing. Zucco killed his parents and now he had to face the man, practically asking for a favor, for any lead on a case that was pretty much a dead-end.

“I’m here. What do you want?” Dick is saying feeling weirdly fidgeting. He is angry and scared and knows there’s a bunch of eyes and ears on them so he can not falter, cannot simply bash Zucco’s head against the table and attempt to strangle him to get what he needs. So he just sits, and watches the man’s yellowish and ashy fingers running against his cuffs chains under the fluorescent.

“How old are you now? 24, 25?”

“Who did it?” He asks, jaw set.

“I have a daughter, you know? Just turned 20.”

“What is your connection to Donna Scott?”

“Her name is Sophia. She writes me every week. Comes visit when she can. I told her she didn’t have to…”

“What is her connection to Haly’s Circus?” Zucco closes his eyes, shakes his head.

“You need to understand, Grayson.” He says lowly and Dick knows, he just knows deep in his bones there’s something terribly wrong here. Zucco looks up at him, and his eyes are hard and twisted. A trap. He shouldn’t be there. “I’d do anything, for her.”

Dick stands slowly and determined, “I don’t have time for this,” his senses are tingling he has to retreat, talk to his team. Walking in blindly was a mistake. Chief was right. He is too unstable, too emotionally compromised. “I’m going out.” He says firmly to the empty room, so the security guards would unlock the door to him.

“Dick, what’s wrong?” Babs say on his ear but he doesn’t know what to say. What exactly is wrong. Expect for his own messy brain. So he simply shrugs knowing she would see it.

He turns his back to Zucco, and tries the door. It is still locked. He lifts his hand to knock when a yell breaks into his ear.

“He’s armed!” Babs voice booms and he turns in his heels. The prisoner is standing too, handcuffs open over the table.

“They took my daughter. They have my Sophie.” Zucco is saying and his hands shake making the silver revolver shine under the fluorescent lights.

“I can’t open the door! The codes… there’s something wrong with them…” Babs is frantic, her breathing fast as he hears her finger flying over the keyboards.  
“We can solve it. We can bring her back. Just let me…”

“No!” The man roars, “They were very clear on their instructions. The last Grayson alive.”

Dick slowly lifts his hands, there’s banging on the other side of the metal doors. He takes a step forward towards the table.

“Who are they, Zucco?” He tries in his most soothing tone. “Why they wanna kill me?” But the man says nothing, just stares between his face and the door behind. “Come on, you owe me that.” Dick snaps and Zucco’s eyes widen in fear and pain.

“I don’t know!” He cries and shakes the gun still aiming at Dick’s head. “There were messages, messages in the books I was reading…”

“I can’t access the doors, I can’t do anything!” Babs is basically yelling and it is so uncharacteristic Dick feels a sudden urge to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Going inside on a private talk to his parent’s killer in the second most dangerous prison in Gotham. They had known all along it was a bait, he and Babs hadn’t even told Bruce where they were actually heading. Dying on the day job was something he wasn’t counting on.

“What books are those?” Dick steps ahead again. He is still a cop, a hell of a detective, and if he is going down, he might as well take as much info from the man before it. 

“I can’t let them touch my daughter,” Zucco’s eyes are wet with unshed tears, they’re darkened with something hard and resolute. “I’m sorry, Grayson.”

Dick hears one, then two shots, but when third rings he is already fallen. The last thing he registers is falls the shinning pieces of broken glass falling around him.

\--------------------

Damian watches the infinity of sand from his quarters’ window. He missed it. In Gotham, the only way to see more than a mile ahead was from up the Wayne Tower, and it was usually dark, the sun never warming his skin, and the sky never this clear.

“Welcome back, Damian al Guhl Wayne.” Ra’s’ voice says and Damian turns from the window already bowing to his grandfather. He feels relieved for having changed his blue cotton pajamas. “It is with great surprise I take you back from the training with the Bat.” There’s acid disapproval on his voice and Damian has to restrain himself from flinching. He knew what the leader of the League of Assassins was capable of when he disapproved something.

“Damian has honored his lineage and proven himself a great apprentice, father. We are looking forward to the Great Duel.” Talia says entering the room.

“Indeed we are,” Damian dares to look up from the Head’s feet and finds a thick eyebrow lifted, thin lips pressed in an unimpressed hard line. “There was a subtle change of plans.” From the corner of his eye he sees Talia stiffen. “Your enemy has been changed. I believe the execution of this one will indeed show your true value and loyalty towards the League.”

Damian’s jaw sets and he bows again. “I am ready to fulfill my destiny.” Telling him the trial had been wrongly set would just enrage Ra’s and make him doubt Damian’s abilities. They had to play along, give Father as much time as he needed to gather enough evidence. 

“That’s still to be seen,” Ra’s says, and Damian straightens his back. “In fact, he’s been brought to us at this precise moment.” You, my daughter, shall go down and receive him.”

“Yes, father.” Talia says leaving the room. Ra’s stays looking steadily at Damian, holding him in place.

“You are to prepare. The captors of your rival are to stay and watch the fight. In honor for their service, the Duel has been brought forward. Be ready to get in the arena when the first rays of the sun shine in the east.”

Damian’s entire body tenses instantly. Last then 24 hours. He has to contact Father, tell him to and bring whatever he finds. But what if he fails? What if he isn’t able to find concrete evidence? Maybe grandfather is right. Maybe he really needs to prepare. He bows again to Ra’s and waits until the leader disappears down the hall.

Then he hurries, down the stone stairs and across the sea of tents, and into the barracks by the huge arena. “Mother!” He calls spotting Talia standing still in front of a cell. “We need to contact Father!” There’s a man sitting on the dust inside the cell, hands tied behind his back and slumped forward. “There was a change of plans…!” 

“I am aware.” Talia says not moving and the man on the cell groans and slowly lifts his head. Damian glances at him, curious to see the face of the man he is supposed to kill. His voice dies down in the middle of the sentence and his steps falter. Hazy, confused eyes look up at him from behind a silver strake of hair. When they focus on Damian, Jason Todd’s eyes widen in desperation. “Your father needs to hurry.”

\-------------------

It is Alfred who drives them to court room in the morning. Bruce and Tim discuss on the backseat wearing well-pressed suits and their favorite ties. 

“Are you telling me it is some kind of power that manipulates written messages?” Tim asks frowning, his appearance much improved after a few hours of sleep and a subtle layer of make up applied by the butler. “I mean, it could be scrambling the minds of people who read them.” 

“Unlikely. People absorb information differently. It would have to be the job of a mind reader to shift it to the exact same information in each person’s head, but both Talia and Damian, and everyone who saw your papers were affected in the same way.”

“There could be a legion of psychics.” Tim tries doubtfully.

“Maybe. But the precision and timing of their work would have perfect.”

“And I don’t remember you fighting any of those lately… at least not in your Bruce Wayne persona.”

“For them to have gone after you kids, they wanted to attack both Bruce and Batman.”

“There’s only a handful of people who know who you are I’ll loo-“

“ _I’ll_ look into it, Mater Timothy, with your permission,” Alfred says making a turn into a crowd of popping flashes and microphones hurrying to meet them. “I’ll head back home and keep you informed on my findings.” He parks the car and watches from the reviewer mirror as father and son adjust ties in unconscious mimicking movements.

“Thank you, Alfred. Look for sorcerers and magicians. Zatana and Jo’hnn may give you a lead. As soon as you have something concrete, contact Damian.” Bruce says reaching for the door handle. “Judge Wellington is famous for knowing the results of his trials even before they happen, but we have a far too uncommon case for him to set a verdict for today.”

“Good luck, my dear boys.” Alfred wishes as the roar of reporters and photographers invade the car.

The Bentley hasn’t left its parking space yet when Bruce reaches the top of the stairs at the justice hall when he turns to the media, Tim standing just by his shoulder.

“A terrible mistake was made based on the tales of an inaccurate piece. My son Tim and I have nothing to hide. We are here today to clear this story.”

Inside, the judge makes it quick. He is a great fan of Goldberg’s previous columns and also resents Wayne and his playboy reputation on a personal level. It doesn’t help the anonymous letter he received granting a ridiculous amount sum of money by a certain David Drake, the abused boy’s uncle leaving in the West Coast. He wouldn’t make it on time to the court based on how quickly things had moved. He had a formal request for the guardianship through a lawyer too. Unusual, but acceptable.

There is no proof of emancipation, the medical records have disappeared as well, but a declaration of Gotham Academy on the boy’s poor school performance since the year his father died, and the vivid images of a sleep-deprived Timothy Drake-Wayne helps the decision to be made under four hours. Another record to Gotham’s justice system and a personal reason of pride to the vain judge.

Timothy Drake-Wayne’s legal guardian becomes David Drake. Judge Wellington feels nothing but soaring pride and self-satisfaction when the teen has to be dragged from Wayne ‘s side under pointless kicks and yelled protests. His swallowing ego only deflates a bit when he notices Wayne’s sinister glare.

It quickly boosts again when an officer comes to tell him Wayne’s eldest was injured in a Blackgate accident, and he remembers seen Wayne’s face go ashen as he answered his phone on the outside halls, minutes after the hearing had ended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know very little legal terms, I'm so sorry if I messed it up completely.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	7. Tattoed skin

Chap 7

Babs is sitting at the hospital waiting room, laptop open on her lap again. Her inbox is open with a few unread e-mails, but she stares at it blindly

Dick is in surgery. A bullet tore through his shoulder, the other two hit his chest. He was too close for the bulletproof vest to actually prevent any damage. Instead it had slowed the projectiles enough not to pierce through him, so the doctors were trying to take them out now.

They had acted fast. She had seen through the feeds, Rohrbach throwing a chair against the two-way mirror and run to disarm Zucco. She watched, as she always did, as Dick’s blood poured out of him even after her father put pressure against the wounds, all the way barking orders and tapping Dick’s cheeks to keep him awake. He was not surprise to find her on the waiting room just after leaving the ER still stained in red. Instead, he had sat by her side, hidden his hands on his pockets, and told the exact same story she had seen happening. When Bruce arrived, he left her with a kiss on the forehead and a promise it would be okay.

Bruce had brought Leslie to keep an eye on everything, just in case. They cannot rely on anything written, the doctors can misread one of Dick’s allergies, the monitors may show different information… he could die on that surgery table over a wrongly labeled drug, but once again he had to trust her blindly – even after all that happened to Stephanie Brown - and hope for the best.

Babs could see him now, phone against his ear talking to Alfred in hushed tones by the end of the hallway. They were still trying to figure out who did this, and she was genuinely impressed Bruce hadn’t jumped in a car and headed to the Cave to figure this out by himself. Maybe it was something to do with being separated from two of his sons in less than ten hours.

She couldn’t help sighing. Loosing custody of Tim was both hilarious and exasperating. There were hundreds of David Drakes in California, but she was pretty sure none of them had relation to the Drakes of Gotham. They’d have to go to the judge once again to clear up the case, but for now, she knew very capable and overpaid lawyers were checking every single info about it. She could allow herself to keep still and wait for some good news for a change.

Her eyes ran over the unopened e-mails and she opened the one sent from Tim in the dead hours of the previous night. It had a video attached and a brief message apologizing for taking over for her. She didn’t find in her the strength to be mad about the trespassing on JL business.

She plugs on her earbuds and clicks in the video and watched as the translation synched to the voices, then opens a file to start indexing the speech. Bruce sits on the chair by hers with a tired grunt.

“They said it might take another couple hours,” she nods, not daring to stop typing and looking at him. The alien lady on the screen lifts her subtle tattooed arms: I proclaim, our friends, that you'll meet grandness and great power. “Alfred says J’onn doesn’t know who could have been messing the messages, but he’ll help look into it.” The binds that hold you back will be undone, and your path will be free for triumph. The video ends, and she play its again.

“I’m sorry about Tim.” The Empress’ metallic voice plays in her ear. “Any news from Jason?” … grandness and great power. “Ethiopia seems quiet, but you never know. I still can’t believe he found photos…”

“Fake ones, I’m sure of it. My guess is that images can be altered just like text. He had an address to a church of some kind… Third Day’s Sanctuary.” …your path will be free for trium-

She stops the video opening a new tab and looking into them. Bruce leans closer to stare at the screen. The first link shown is their official homepage. “Looks like a bunch of fanatics believing in delirious dreams of people lost in the desert.” There’s a link to their social media site and she clicks it, only scrolling down a bit before a big photo of Jason painted on a mural fills the screen.

Beside her Bruce holds his breath. “Our Witnesses of Light mural has been miraculously changed tonight by divine forces,” she reads the text in Arabic, unable to believe her eyes. “Our Angel of Sacrifice is on his way and the prophecy shall be comple- Angel of Sacrifice?” She exclaims loudly.

“I’ll send Clark to Ethiopia. This is getting out of control.” Bruce says pulling his phone out of his pocket again, and Babs’ fingers are already flying through links and scrolling down texts.

“Bruce! I was just gonna call you! Just read about Timmy. How the hell..?”

“I need a favor.” Bruce cuts him and there’s more than a hint of the deep growl of Batman on his voice.

“Whatever you need.” Clark says immediately.

“Jason is in Ethiopia,” His voice doesn’t shake like his hands and he is thankful for it. “There’s a group, a cult, that plan on sacrifice him...”

“I’m on my way.” And for the sound of wind on the other end he knows he actually is. Bab’s hand grab at his arm and he looks startled at her.

“Shit.” She murmurs and Bruce follows her gaze. It is an encrypted e-mail from someone signing as K. 

The sacrifice is set for dawn. Our angel will fulfill his destiny and fall on the sand once again and the Great Lord will bestow His immediate justice on our enemies, right on their own ground.

“Kofi Bayisa is, apparently, their leader. I’m trying to get into his phone’s GPS right now…” 

“I found him,” Clark’s voice says still on the phone. “And Bruce, you’re not gonna like it.”

___________________

Timothy Drake-Wayne and his Italian suit were told to wait in a small room, its walls covered by stained dinosaur-covered wall-paper, and dirty grey carpet that smelled of kid’s urine and sweaty feet.

They said his uncle – one he knew didn’t exist – was on his way and he was to wait there, away from the small snot-nosed crying children and other teens around his age that had as much as spit on his shoes when he was hurriedly introduced. It was for his own safety, the man that led him there had said. Tim had almost laughed at that.

He sits down on the lumpy mattress of the bunker bed, his back bent so he won’t hit his head, and slumps against the wall. He has two options now. He can stay and meet this curious man that claims to be his family, or he goes downstairs to the bathroom and climbs out through the window and walks the 9 miles between the foster house and the cave and simply hides until the situation is clear.

He closes his eyes for a second weighting his options and drifts for a fitful sleep. He dreams of tattooed, green, and skinny hands grabbing at his face, of alien devices opening his eyes wide and making he look at floating words whose letters change just as he is trying to focus. A metallic voice urges him to read, first softly, then forcefully. When he tries to reason he can’t do that, a hand smacks on the back of his neck and the words float again, the metallic voice keeps on encouraging him. It is only after the eighth or ninth hit that he wakes up in a jolt, drenched in sweat and with a stiff from sliding on the wall until his neck bent until his chin touched his chest. It takes him a couple seconds to get his jammed thoughts back in order, then he jumps sitting up, head knocking hard on the upper bed.

He lets out a surprised yell, takes a hand to the top of his head, the other digging into his jacket pocket. He has the answer. He finally knows what’s going on.

“Bruce! I go it! I finally figured-“

“Wait,” A second passes. “Clark is on the line.”

“Ok, so, mixing messages, right? It had o be something crazy, something magical, something _alien_. Get it? No offense Clark.”

“None taken.”

“I was deep in thought just now and then: who may have strange, almighty power AND’s got weird letters all over their body?”

“The Empress,” Bruce states unsurprised. “But it makes no sense. She offered us her blessings when we left.”

“No,” Babs says, and Tim is more surprised she interfered in the conversation, then that she was listening at all. Oracle was everywhere, as far as he knew. “She promised you triumph and power. Good one, Tim.”

“Am I the only one who isn’t following? How come sending Jason and Damian to the League is giving Bruce triumph?” 

“Is Jason with the League too?!”

“And Dick got shot. We are the hospital now.” Bruce says and in the same breath “Are you at the Foster Home? Are you safe?” Tim sits back on the bed, this time minding his head. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Is he okay?”

“He’s in surgery,” Babs cuts flatly “And yeah, they promised Batman triumph, not Bruce specifically. The binds that hold you back will be undone,” she quotes. “They may believe they are restraining you for being the best you can be.”

“Nonsense.” Bruce cuts sharply.

“We have no other theory, and for as much as I’d love to hear you guys go through possible motives, I’m afraid we don’t have much time left.” Clark says and Tim’s hand grips the phone tighter.

“What do you see?”

“Nothing. I’m not close enough to see anything. But I can hear them preparing. The boys’ heartrates are picking up...”

“Pain?” Bruce ask quickly.

“No. Fear.”

“I’m going up to the Tower”, Tim can hear the clear resolution on his voice. “Clark is right, it’s the only theory we got.”

There’s a knock at his door. “Mr. Drake?” the man who lead him in calls.

“Somebody is here. Keep me informed.” He says lowly on the phone and ends the call. The door swings open just as he pockets his phone. Standing on his doorway, hand still gripping the knob, is the man’s familiar face. Standing in the hallway just behind him is the accompanied by the fake uncle’s lawyer Tim recognizes from the courtroom earlier.

“Your uncle sent me. You are to travel with me.” The lawyer says pushing back one side of his jacket just enough for Tim to see the handle of a gun at his waist. The Social Worker seems oblivious, still holding the door open.

“See? I told you it wouldn’t be long.” He seems almost happy to get rid Tim. He can’t blame the man, really. It would be only a matter of time before those teens starting to get on his hair.

He is led again out of the house and into a black Mercedes. The armed man -Tim refuses to think of him as a lawyer anymore – enters beside him in the backseat. A driver, that looks a lot more like a nightclub bouncer starts the car.

“Sooo,” Tim starts when neither man say anything for a few minutes. “Where are we heading?”

“You’ll see.” The man on his side states simply. He takes a good look at Tim. “They told us to keep an eye on you. Said you were a smart kid and would try to run.” He takes the gun from his waist. “I take it a smart guy won’t try to piss an armed man.”

Tim feels like laughing, instead he presses his lips together in a firm line until he feels he can speak without smiling. “I surely wouldn’t.” 

“Good.” The man’s severe stare seems to ease a bit. “Now sit back down and shut your mouth. It won’t take long.”

He could scape. He could incapacitate the man, get the gun, kick the driver out and take the car. It would be easy, but to be honest, Tim was curious to where they were taking him. Shoot him in a dark alley and throw pearls around him, just to haunt Bruce forever? Tie him over the Batsignal, light it up and burn his flesh? Get him one last meeting with Captain Boomerang? The possibilities were never ending, and unfortunately, once as horrid as the next. The men didn’t seem to want to kill him, but Tim had figured there were worst things than death a long time ago.

So he aligned himself in the seat, back practically against the door. The driver wouldn’t be able to reach him there once he hit the man by his side, who now was distracted in his phone. Tim took a deep, steadying breath, hand already moving up.

But an abrupt hit in the breaks sent him flying against the driver’s seat, the man’s phone flying from his hand and falling between the front seats.  
“Whatta..?” The driver exclaimed as the fake lawyer reached for his gun. It was now or never. Tim flung himself over the other man, his own hand grabbing the gun before it’s owner and smashing the hard handle on his temple knocking him out. It was only when he turned to driver that he spotted the blonde girl in the black uniform standing just in front of the car.

Batgirl? He didn’t let his brain elaborate. Jumping in between the seats, he put the gun against the driver’s head. “Don’t even think about it.” He said lowly and the big man’s hand stopped its slowly descent to his holster. “Out. Now.”

The man obeyed and he jumped to the driver’s seat motioning to Steph to get in. The second she closed the door he accelerated thanking the bullet-proof car windows.

“What the hell are you doing here?” He asked making a sharp turn to the left.

“I’m not letting them drag you away!” She exclaimed a bit too loudly, fumbling to buckle up. Tim couldn’t help a little warm feeling to spread inside of him. “When I read they brought your near my home I knew I had to act.

“I’m flattered, really am. But why is Batgirl kidnapping Timothy Drake-Wayne?”

She opened her mouth and closed again after a second. “Never mind, just keep on eye on the guy in the back. He dropped his phone on the floor somewhere. Maybe we can figure out where they were heading.”

“’Kay,” she said already turning on her seat. A minute later she had the phone unlocked by using the guy’s finger. She flipped through messages and then e-mails, before elbowing him on the ribs. “Ha! I was so right!” Tim was getting deeper in the neighborhood now, heading to one of the safe houses. “Look!” She exclaimed extending the phone to him. “Batgirl didn’t kidnap you! She saved you from an involuntary psychiatric hospitalization.”

Tim had a very clear image of himself, drugged out of his brain and left in a cushioned cell for the rest of his life. He shivered, before turning to Steph.

“Send this to Oracle. Tell her we’re keeping a eye on our friend lawyer until we get news from Bruce’s return.”

“Where did he go?”

“Right. Where should I begin?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did mean to finish it today, but the week has been crazy.  
> The very last chapter is due until the end of the week, so keep an eye out!
> 
> Thank you soo much for the kudos and comments!


	8. No blessings, thank you.

Chap 8

“We, like you, detective are beings driven by evidence. We are able to reach all existing information from the past and manipulate it in the present so we may grant the future we believe to be more suitable for ourselves. We have no means to predict it with exact certainty, but based on previous events, our manipulations often bring us the envisioned outcome.” The Empress head brightens the room at the JL Watchtower in a light shade of green. “We bestowed you a gift, one to rise you up above your enemies.”

“Take it back.” Batman barks to the monstrous monitor. Her big, oval shaped eyes glim in a deep black while staring down at him.

“You refuse our blessings?”

“I refuse your attempt to killing. Getting rid of my Robins is no way help at all!”

“I’m afraid you are mistaken, valuable friend. Your time spent with those children has weakened you and clouded your judgement. You became emotionally compromised. The things you could do by embracing your true identity…”

“They are part of my identity. There would be no Batman without Robin!”

“That is a partial truth. We have analyzed your decision making. For you to achieve the entire potential of Justice bringer to your home, you must let go of the people who blindside you.”

“They balance me!”

“They put you in check! We showed you their cracks, exposed them to a some mild situations and look at where they are. They are weak and are a menace to your prosperity and even existence of you and your role! Look at the eldest.”

"Dick never wanted to be Batman." His growl goes deeper, rumbling in his chest.

"But he was once. And he did great, some say better than yourself, Mr Wayne. He is a double threat, a competition and a crutch. You rely on him to fill where you believe can't and that holds you from going further in your quest for perfection."

“You are wrong.”

“What about the youngest? He has your blood, yes, but mixed with the poison of the serpent that burns his veins and whispers in his ears. With him, the mantle would turn into something too terrible and venture much too far from your objectives and legacy.”

“Damian is a child,” Batman’s hands were closed in fists, the muscles in his jaw tight. “You cannot predict what he’ll do. You can’t see the futu-,”

“No. But we access all the information from the past. Jason should have stayed dead. We know of your suffering, but loss is what built you, and once you had processed the grief, you’d be even stronger. Taking him away we give you back the chance to rise higher that was taken from you.”

“They are my sons!” Bruce snarls, teeth bare as he confronts the enlarged face. “You cannot possibly comprehend what losing a child is like!” 

“We do have an idea. When a child loses their parents, they become an orphan. But there is not a name for a parent that loses his son. A father changes into nothing, and that is something we cannot spare you entirely from. That’s why we decided to spare you a child. One that showed unwavering support on your darkest days, one that selflessly came for you from a very young age when you were in need, one that still donates himself to both of your persona’s cause. For Timothy’s selfless actions, you may keep him, but in a state he won’t be able to interfere in your path.”

“We appreciate your unfounded concern,” He says through gritted teeth, swallowing the words he meat to yell. Rage rolls from him in waves. Still she is a powerful leader, one that needs to be shown respect. If her doings had been her blessing, he never planned on meeting her condemnations. “But on Earth we rather face our destinies by ourselves. A deal with The Justice League is being put together right now to prevent your interference in our planet again. If accepted, it will be signed according to your culture, against the skin of those involved.”

“I see. Much like the reason we came to meet, our calling on the other’s actions were miscalculated. It seems that to some lifeforms, unbridled chance is better accepted then intervention from those who act for their benefit. I wish you would reconsider our offering. You would be unstoppable and absolute.”

“Thank you, Empress. But I have made up my mind.”

“If this is your wish, you have my sole contribution.” She raised her arms again, both palms turned up against the sky. “What was set once, may take place again. Our interventions on your world were undone, the messages once sent now shall exhibit their true meaning.” She puts her arms down. “I’m afraid we can only give you back the altered information, and not fix the situations they caused. Good luck, my fool friend.”

The video feed ends and Bruce takes a deep breath. The weight of the world seemed to be lifted from his shoulders. He opens a video, crops the part the Empress lifts her doings and sends it to Talia, then the whole thing to Oracle – it isn’t like she wasn’t going to watch it later anyway. He is still talking to J’onn about the deal’s details when Clarks sends him a message about the freeing of Jason and Damian. The pressure against his chest eases. 

When he returns to Earth, on his way to the hospital, Tim sends him the link to a video of a reporter outside a police station. The fake Drake lawyer is being dragged inside with a bloodied face and tight handcuffs. He and an accomplice had been stopped by Batgirl from kidnapping the young mister Drake-Wayne. Even though they claim to have been hired to take the teen to a mental institution by his uncle, there is no evidence of the deal, and investigations on the referred David Drake were taking place. The both are facing charges for perjury identity theft, kidnap attempt. Judge Wellington were also to face an inquiry about the record-time case regarding the Timothy.

At the hospital, he finds Alfred and Clark at the hall. They exchange quick, reassuring words and relieved looks before he moves to the room they indicate and finds his family scattered around. Tim and Steph doze on the couch. Jason snores softly in the armchair. Damian is fast asleep curled at Dick’s feet. Babs rests her head inches from a sleeping Dick’s face, her fingers crossed with his slack ones, glasses crooked on her face. The doctors said he'd wake up soon.

He lets out a profound sigh and lets the lets the sharp ache on his heart be replaced by a new warm and tight feeling. They are all safe and together again. Things would be just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a wrap!
> 
> Thank you sooo much for keeping up with the story!  
> I really hope you have enjoyed it!
> 
> Thanks again for all the kudos and comments, you are the best!

**Author's Note:**

> So here's my actual try on writting something longer.  
> Thank you so much for reading and please, do leave comments and kudos if you enjoyed!


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